


Plant the Seeds of Arcadia

by anthologia



Category: BioShock
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/M, Mute by choice, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Brainwashing, Permanent Injury, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 04:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3923536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthologia/pseuds/anthologia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Atlas stops in the doorway, eyeing you up and down with a bit of a leer. You smile at him from the bed and arrange your slip, giving him barely a half-inch more skin to see. From the look on his face, you might as well have taken the whole thing off. “I’m gettin’ the idea you want somethin’, love.”</p>
<p>(In which Jack was born a girl, and Atlas became a little more real than Fontaine ever intended. And it's basically just smut.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plant the Seeds of Arcadia

**Author's Note:**

> A little something I wrote during a playthrough of Bioshock. I never properly wrote something to establish the verse, but the important things: Jack was born a girl and hidden in the Little Sisters Orphanage while being conditioned, and Fontaine went a little too deep into the Atlas role, accidentally creating a full-on split personality that wrested control from Fontaine entirely. 
> 
> This fic, however, is mostly just porn. (NO REGRETS.) Minor content warnings for what is basically as-consensual-as-it-could-be use of mind control.

There will always be a framework of conditioning in your mind. With Tenenbaum’s help, you have been able to remove the triggers that were immediate dangers to yourself, but the base upon which it was built goes too deep. Underneath your thoughts, there will always be a mass of compulsions that even she can’t remove without removing parts of your brain with a scalpel. You decline the offer. It’s much easier to live in a world with _would you kindly_ and _good girls gather_ floating through your mind than it is to live in a world without a mind at all.

Besides, not everything about it is terrible.

Atlas stops in the doorway, eyeing you up and down with a bit of a leer. You smile at him from the bed and arrange your slip, giving him barely a half-inch more skin to see. From the look on his face, you might as well have taken the whole thing off. “I’m gettin’ the idea you want somethin’, love.”

You roll your eyes at him and pat the mattress next to you impatiently. Since your vocal chords were irreversibly injured in Rapture, you try not to speak unless you absolutely have to. Atlas chuckles and makes his way over, touching the back of your neck lightly as he sits down. He’s maintained that he’s not bothered by your voice and you should speak as much as you like, _but_ , he’ll add with a grin, _you were never one for much talkin’ anyway, now were you?_

“Now what would a girl like you be wantin’ with the likes of me?”

You let out an audible groan at him, wincing inside at the unnatural noise your voice makes. He likes to do this, be deliberately obtuse in an attempt to bait you into speaking or physically _forcing_ him to understand. You go for the latter, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him forward so you can get your lips on him. He chuckles throatily, ever-amused by how easily he can get under your skin. (Metaphorically and literally.)

You’re not a slouch in the muscles department, having been bred to eventually battle your way through Splicers and Big Daddies, but he’s always been bigger, sporting the physique of the working-class man that Fontaine had created to play the part. He has no difficulty picking you up, placing you in his lap, and arranging you to his liking. In a moment, you’re straddling him comfortably.

“There now, isn’t that better?” he murmurs. You answer with an approving smile and lean forward to capture his lips again. He palms your breast, a thumb tweaking your nipple, and you jump a little at the spark of feeling. He chuckles again, pulling back so he can rest a hand against your face and direct your gaze to him. As if it was going to be anywhere else. “Would you kindly stay still? No jumpin’ off on me now.”

_Would you kindly._ The words are like a well-worn groove in your mind, the command resting heavily in your thoughts. It’s no longer irresistible, but the compulsion is still there, the urge to just _obey_. He uses the moment to search your eyes for any sign that he’s given you an order you don’t want to follow.

There’s none. Sitting still for him is easy, so easy, and it makes you feel light and happy to be doing what he wants. He smirks and bows his head to carefully catch your nipple between his teeth through your slip, and although you feel like squirming away – it’s almost too much, too sensitive, always has been – you stay so still while he licks at it, dampening the material before moving on to the other one.

He could ask you to do just about anything right now. He could order you to get wet for him, and you think your body would obey. But you know what he’d say – _where’s the fun in that? Is my mouth not workin’ that I’d have to cheat so badly? –_ before kissing you, probably with the taste of you still wet on his lips.

(You wonder if that’s something he would do for Moira, or just you.

You wonder if you’re going to hell for thinking that, even if Moira never really existed.)

As if he can read your thoughts, Atlas flips you around and lays you out on the bed, arranging you so you’re comfortable before lifting your slip up past your thighs. He mouths at where the ends of the material meet your skin before working his way slowly between your thighs.

The first swipe of his tongue would make you shudder if you were allowed to move. As it is, you can only stay still while he kisses and licks you like you’re the nicest thing he’s ever tasted. You’re so sensitive you could cry. It’s always been that way – you’re not going to ask Tennenbaum, but you think it might have something to do with the way you were aged, all the nerves forming and connecting much quicker than normal. Maybe it doesn’t matter why. Just that the first time he did this, Atlas had looked at you like you were his own personal Christmas.

His finger nudges at your entrance, and he takes a breath away from fucking you with his mouth to speak. “That’s it, love, easy now. Keep relaxed for me, there’s a good girl.” As his finger slips in slowly, another wash of thoughts goes through your head, more old conditioning. _Good girl_. It’s important to be a good girl. Good girls relax. You’re a good girl. He moves his finger slightly, stroking your inner walls in a way that makes you gasp, but you’re a good girl and you stay relaxed.

He presses a kiss to your hip. “You can move a little now, if you want.” This time when he presses his tongue against your clit, your hips cant upwards towards him. He chuckles in a way that makes you want to grab him and make him promise to never stop making that noise against you, but you’re a good girl so you stay still while he starts thrusting his finger in and out of your pussy.

You’re panting softly, unvoiced whimpers in your throat when he pauses again, pats your leg and says, voice rough, “Now don’t go comin’ without my say-so, would you kindly.” You groan, the order paradoxically making you feel _closer_ to coming than you were moments ago, overheated and oversensitive.

He goes back to licking you senseless for another minute or two before pulling back to finally start stripping off his shirt and trousers. Once he’s done, he offers you a hand up, gentle like he’s inviting you to dance. When you’re sitting up again, he flips your hand over to kiss your palm where the skin is scarred and a little deformed from Plasmid use. You’ve told him it makes you feel self-conscious when he does that, which he maintains is more than enough reason to keep doing it until you accept it doesn’t bother him. He presses another kiss to the track marks on your arm where you injected EVE so many times before hauling you up again and setting you in his lap, this time lowering you gently onto his cock.

Even though he’s careful and slow about it, you still squirm and gasp, inner muscles clenching around him. He groans low and pushes you down more firmly until you’re fully seated. “That’s it now, Jackie-love,” he murmurs as he brushes a little hair away from your face. “Take what you need.”

With his blessing, you plant your knees on either side of him for leverage and start lifting yourself up and pushing down carefully, each press downwards knocking a little breath out of you. It doesn’t take long for you to build up speed, riding his cock like it’s the only thing that matters. The tension inside of you builds toward orgasm quickly, but with his order still in place, there’s nothing for it to do but keep building.

He can feel the fluttering in your muscles, the tenseness in your body and just smirks at you, the bastard. You’re not sure how long you can hold out, even with his command. Going slower doesn’t help, just makes feel like you can barely breathe, and you want to cry because _it’s so good_ and _it won’t stop_.

You actually do feel tears start to prick at your eyes, and he starts petting your hair, murmuring soothing nothings, _that’s it, sweetheart, you’re all right, you’re such a good girl_ , before finally taking pity on you, _you can come now._ You let out a _scream_ , for once not caring about your shredded vocal chords, and you’re shaking and crying while he keeps thrusting into you until he slams up into you one last time and stills, coming in hot spurts inside you.

It feels like a few minutes pass, but it’s probably only a matter of seconds before he gently lifts you off his softening cock and sets you on the bed next to him, his arm still around you, holding you close. You stay like that for a while before he finally stirs, making motions towards getting up. You grumble silently, an art you’ve perfected with lots of practice, and he kisses your forehead. “You’re a right mess now, you are,” he says fondly. “Why don’t I go get us somethin’ to clean up with?”

When he stands, he tucks a pillow under your head to replace where you were using him to rest against. You’re vaguely aware of him moving around, coming back with a wet cloth he gently wipes you off with, before he climbs back into the bed with you, where he belongs.


End file.
